


The First Snow After Christmas

by MenthaLightfoot



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenthaLightfoot/pseuds/MenthaLightfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre comes back to Paris after Christmas, and Courfeyrac has changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Snow After Christmas

A snowstorm was swirling when Combeferre got back to Paris.

The weather had been so much nicer at home. There wasn't snow on Christmas, which was disappointing, but there were also no high-speed winds whipping into your face or slush getting into your shoes.

It was only a few blocks from the Metro to the apartment he shared with Courfeyrac and Enjolras, but after two minutes in the open in he was already cold to the bone. By the time he reached the apartment, he was shivering and dripping.

When he pushed open the door, he was washed over with a surge of warm air, and he sighed happily. Enjolras was sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in one hand and a book open in his lap. He grinned and jumped up when he saw Combeferre. “You're home!”

He stomped off his boots. “Yeah. Mostly. I think I may have lost a finger on the way home without realizing. It's terrible out there,” he said, clunking his suitcase over the threshold.

Enjolras pulled it further into the apartment, and helped him out of his coat. “I looked out the window and decided to stay inside today. Do you want tea? I got some for Christmas and it's wonderful.”

“That would be great.” He unwound his scarf; the snow on it had melted already, and he shook it out. “Is Courfeyrac here yet?”

Enjolras clicked the tab to start the water boiling. “He was. I don't know where he is now. His coat was on a peg last night, but after I got back from the Musain it was gone, and he wasn't in his room.”

“That's weird.” He shrugged out of his coat. “Have you called him?”

“I texted, but he hasn't responded.”

Combeferre's brow creased. Courfeyrac had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the holiday. Usually Combeferre got a text every day or so, with Courfeyrac complaining about how he was bored, or his mom's terrible cooking, or his aunt's always terrible perfume choices. But about four days in his phone had gone silent. There was one text, on Christmas morning, wishing him a happy holiday, but it was just that. No exclamation points (no punctuation at all, actually), no exaggerated moaning about how much he missed them, and no picture of himself obscenely licking a candy cane.

“Do you think he's okay?”

Enjolras held Combeferre's favorite blue mug out to him. “I'm sure he's fine. He's always a little depressed after Christmas is over.”

Combeferre wrapped his fingers around the mug; it was a little too warm, but he savored the tiny burn after being so chilled.

“How was your holiday?” he asked, blowing the steam off the top.

“All right.” Enjolras sighed.

He sat down on the couch. “What? What happened this time?”

“My grandmother came over on Christmas Eve. I had to go to church.” Last year Enjolras had told his parents that he was an atheist, or at least a strong rationalist agnostic. They’d been all right with it; they had learned to accept most of his political views with a tired smile. But his grandmother had been horrified, and she made it her mission to bring him back to the flock.

He chuckled. “You poor thing.”

Enjolras gave him a look. “It was ludicrous. She actually made me take communion. She knows I don’t mean it; what’s the point?”

Combeferre sipped his tea; it was sweet and orangey, but also heavy with cinnamon and allspice. He smiled. “I suppose she thinks its better to have a sulky grandson than one sentenced to eternal damnation. Right now you’re set for the sixth circle.”

Enjolras huffed, but at the tail end of it he smiled.  

They went over the rest of their holidays with each other. Enjolras had spent a lot of vacation volunteering at a soup kitchen in Toulouse and he had a million pictures of the people who went through the line. Some of them smiled widely, their arms thrown amiably around Enjolras’s shoulder; others were somber and straight-faced, only standing next to him because he had asked nicely. But he told each and every one of their stories with reverie and respect, his voice cradling them as if they were gems.

Combeferre’s Christmas had mostly been spent with his family; his cousin had just gotten engaged, and his aunt had thrown a huge party. Enjolras asked a million questions. He was an only child, and intrigued by Combeferre’s sprawling family. “You might as well consider yourself a Combeferre,” Combeferre said. “Everyone kept asking me where you were. They were so disappointed when I said you weren’t coming.”

Enjolras smiled shakily, his eyes shining with happy tears.

They ordered Chinese, after some debate—they didn’t want to force anyone out into the weather, but there was almost no food in the house (except for a weird mix of snacks that Courfeyrac must have bought)—and pulled up _Alfred Hitchcock Presents_. They left the gingerbread cake Combeferre’s mother had sent home with him on the counter for Courfeyrac, who liked to spend the days leading up to New Year’s binge-eating it while watching Christmas movies.

Enjolras rested on his head on Combeferre’s shoulder. “I don’t understand your fascination with John Williams. He’s digging a hole to hide his wife’s body in the _while smoking a pipe_. I mean, who does that?”

“He’s also wearing dress shoes. It’s just the era.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

Combeferre smiled. It was good to be home.

\---

When Combeferre woke up, it was dark out. Enjolras was curled up on his chest, his breathing gentle as he slept. Combeferre ran his hand over his hair, and he hummed a little in his sleep.

All the lights in the apartment were off; the episode menu was on loop on the TV, but the rest of the room was in shadow.

Combeferre squinted when he looked back into the kitchen. The fridge was open, its light spilling out across the counter and a little bit of the living room floor. He could hear things being shuffled around, jars and bottles clinking together.

He moved Enjolras as gently as he could, putting a pillow under his head and laying a blanket across his lower body.

When he passed around the counter, he saw that the gingerbread cake had been cut into, and there were two slices lying on a plate next to it. There was also a _mountain_ of other snacks—containers of applesauce, a few bottled smoothies, and snack packs of hummus. Combeferre wrinkled his nose a little. He hoped Courfeyrac wasn’t planning on eating those together.

Courfeyrac was still rooting around in the fridge, his head totally immersed.

“Did you just get in?” he asked.

Courfeyrac jumped and banged his head against the ceiling of the open fridge. “Fuck!”

Combeferre put out his hand to steady him, but as soon as his head was out Courfeyrac pulled away. His back thunked against the open fridge, his eyes wide.

“Hey, it's okay,” Combeferre said. “It's just me.”

Courfeyrac stared at him. He didn't say anything. He was in a ratty, holey Sex Pistols t-shirt and sweatpants, and his hair was sticking up in wild angles. He had dark, almost purplish circles under his eyes.

Combeferre glanced between him and the heap of food on the counter. “…Are you okay?”

Courfeyrac hesitated, and then nodded silently.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Courfeyrac didn't go back into the fridge, or say anything; he just stared at Combeferre.

“Um…” Combeferre fidgeted.

Courfeyrac slammed the fridge closed and squeezed himself between Combeferre and the counter. He sprinted across the living room.

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre followed. Courfeyrac ran into his room, the door slamming shut.

Combeferre stopped at the closed door. He knocked. “Courfeyrac.” Silence. “Please, Courfeyrac? Are you okay?”

The door was unlocked when he tried the knob. He only opened the door a crack; he was worried, but Courfeyrac had a right to his privacy.

“Courfeyrac?”

The room looked like a dumping ground. A suitcase sat near the closet, still full of dirty clothes from Courfeyrac’s visit home. Empty bowls and mugs were covering the desk, and half a dozen empty pudding cups were stacked within each other on the nightstand. His laptop was open, the screen frozen where Courfeyrac had paused the movie he was watching.

Courfeyrac was lying face down on his bed, his arms and legs askew. He always slept a huge pile of pillows, and his upper body was almost swallowed by them.

A muffled voice arose, quiet and cracked. “My life is over.”

Combeferre pushed the door open the rest of the way. “What happened?”

Courfeyrac's head shook, and his lower body curled into a ball.

Combeferre sat down next to him on the bed and put a hand on his back. It tensed, and he rubbed circles in between his shoulder blades until it relaxed. “Did something happen at home?”

Courfeyrac nodded. He turned his head a little to see Combeferre. His eyes shimmered with tears ready to fall.

This wasn’t post-holiday melancholy. Combeferre scooted closer to Courfeyrac, putting one leg up so that he was half lying on the bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Courfeyrac hesitated. The first tear fell, and his chest heaved, trying to take in enough air to stop the rest from coming.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he coaxed, wiping the tear away with his thumb.

Courfeyrac tilted up into the touch, and squirmed a little bit closer, pressing his face into Combeferre’s leg. He wondered how long Courfeyrac had been locked in his room; Enjolras had gotten there a full day before he had, and hadn’t seen him the whole time. It was unsettling; Courfeyrac never chose to be by himself when he could be around other people.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet and cracked. “I can never go outside again.”

Combeferre smoothed down his hair a little. “Why not?”

He didn’t say anything, but tilted his head all the way up, looking up at Combeferre. Hesitantly, he smiled. His bottom lip started trembling as he did.

Two rows of shiny braces were affixed to Courfeyrac's teeth.

“…Oh.”

Courfeyrac's face crumbled. A sob heaved out of his chest, deep and wounded. “I look like a _freak_.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and pressed his face into them.

Combeferre’s heart squeezed. Courfeyrac had always been proud of his looks; he bloomed under the attention people gave him. But he had a soul that bruised as easily as it glowed; this must feel like the end of the world to him.

“You don’t,” he said softly. “Of course you don’t.”

Courfeyrac shook his head. His crying softened into little, private whimpers, and he rocked back and forth slightly.

“Come here.” He pulled on Courfeyrac’s arm gently. “Come here.”

Courfeyrac rose up, half holding his arms out, and Combeferre pulled him in, tucking his head under his chin. Courfeyrac clutched at his shirt and cried into his neck.

“It’s okay,” he whispered every so often. “It’s going to be okay.”

After a good twenty minutes, Courfeyrac started to calm down. He kept his head down, half buried in Combeferre’s chest, and spoke with his lips firmly covering his teeth.

“Everyone's going to laugh at me,” he whispered.

Combeferre started to say _no, they won't_ , but that would be a lie. Their friends were good people, but they didn't spare your emotions at the expense of having a good laugh. Something as obvious as braces would be preyed upon mercilessly.

He set his jaw and hugged Courfeyrac closer. “I'll throttle anyone who makes fun of you,” he said. He would. He didn’t care who it was. Courfeyrac sniffled, and pulled his shirt up to wipe his face.

“You don't have to tell me,” he said softly. “But what happened? Why did you get braces?”

A flash of contempt marred Courfeyrac’s face. “My mother made me. She took me to the dentist the first day I was home. It was just supposed to be a check-up, but they found some stupid tooth-thing.”

Combeferre went through his mental Rolodex of “tooth things”, but it wasn't that extensive; dental wasn't his field. “If you had to get them so quickly, then you probably really need them,” Combeferre said. It was a lame thing to say—obviously that didn’t make it any better—but he didn’t know what else to tell him.  

Courfeyrac kicked at his rumpled sheets. “My teeth were fine. And now I look like a fucking thirteen year old!” He sighed, and hiccupped again. “I want to die.”

“Don’t say that.” Combeferre stroked his hair, burying his fingers in the dark curls. “It's all right. We'll get through this.”

For a while they sat there, holding each other. Courfeyrac cried again, and Combeferre held him close and rubbed his back. When it slowed to soft hiccups, Combeferre wiped his cheeks gently and kissed his forehead.

Courfeyrac ran his tongue over his teeth. “I hate them. I can’t stop _feeling them_ , and I want to just rip them off my teeth.”

Combeferre rocked him gently and petted his curls. “That goes away after you get used to them.”

“I don’t _want_ to get used to them.” He pressed his face more into Combeferre’s shoulder. “No one’s going to like me with these things.”

“Of course they will.”

“No,” he said simply. “They won’t.”

A thick, sleepy voice came in from the living room. “Combeferre?”

Courfeyrac wriggled out of Combeferre's arms and grabbed a pillow, hiding his face in it just as Enjolras appeared in the doorway. 

Enjolras still looked half-rumpled with sleep, his lips opening wide as he yawned, but as soon as he saw the state of the room and Courfeyrac he was awake and rushing over to the bed.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Go away,” Courfeyrac said, voice muffled.

Enjolras looked to Combeferre. Combeferre touched Courfeyrac's shoulder. “It's Enjolras, Courfeyrac.”

“I don't care. I'm hideous and no one should see me.”

“What is it?” Enjolras asked.

Combeferre sighed. “He's, ah...he's got braces.”

“Braces?”

Courfeyrac turned his back to them. His shoulders shook, and he clutched the pillow tighter to his body, making himself smaller and smaller as he cried.

Combeferre's shoulders fell, and blinked a few times to keep the tears away. He didn't want to cry; he had to be strong for Courfeyrac's sake, but Courfeyrac just looked so _small_. So broken. It was just _wrong_.   

Enjolras sat down on the bed next to him, took his hand and squeezed it. His face was solemn. “I don’t care if you have braces, Courfeyrac,” he said quietly. “You're the same person you were before.”

After he swallowed to moisten his throat, Combeferre said, “He's right. It doesn't change anything.”

Courfeyrac shook his head, lifting his face out of the pillow a little. “You don't _understand_. You two don’t have to work to make people love you. When you talk, Enjolras, everyone stops and listens. And you’re the smartest person I’ve ever seen, Combeferre. I…I’m not like that. I’m not special.” He tucked his chin into the plush of the pillow. “And now I’m ugly.”

Combeferre's heart shattered. Enjolras's hand gripped his fingers so tight it hurt.

“How can you say that?” Enjolras asked. Courfeyrac sniffled and shrugged.

Enjolras let go of Combeferre's hand and marched over to the other side of Courfeyrac's bed. He lay down next to Courfeyrac and slipped his arms around his waist. “If you ever, _ever_ look me in the eye and say that again, I'll kick your ass.”

“You can't possibly believe that,” Combeferre said.  

“I have _brace face_ , Combeferre.”

He lay down on Courfeyrac's other side, propping himself up on his elbow. “Who gives a fuck?”

“You're incredible, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said. “Everyone loves you. We love you.”

“You’re my friends, you have to say that.” He bunched up a handful of covers in his fist.

“It’s true.” Combeferre put a hand on Courfeyrac’s cheek. “You’re always there when someone needs you. You’re funny, and so kind. And those things don’t go away because you look different.”

“People like you because you’re openhearted, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said. “You make them feel at home.”

“We wouldn’t have half the friends we do if it weren’t for you.”

“We wouldn’t have each other if it weren’t for you.” Enjolras hugged him. “You introduced us.” 

Courfeyrac looked doubtful. He sighed, and buried his nose in Combeferre’s shoulder. “My mouth hurts.”

“I’ll get you some painkillers in a minute,” Combeferre said. He wrapped his arms around Courfeyrac, making them all into a single bundle of arms and legs. Courfeyrac sighed, a little happier this time, and snuggled in. “Don’t let this bring you down. You’re too good for it.”

“The best,” Enjolras said.

“The funniest,” Combeferre added.

“The most organized.”

“And still the best dressed out of all of us.”

“You guys!” Courfeyrac covered his ears. “I’m _trying_ to be miserable.” A small, closed mouth smile. “Dorks.”

 “We won’t let you,” Enjolras said.

“We’ll be here for you, we promise,” Combeferre said. "We'll get through it." 

Courfeyrac used his covers to wipe away the vestiges of his tears. “…Can we watch _Muppet Christmas Carol_?”

Combeferre smiled. “Of course.”

 Enjolras gave him one last squeeze around the waist. “I’ll make you a gingerbread cake milkshake.”

Courfeyrac didn’t smile, but his eyes sparkled.

 


End file.
